


The WIP That Fought Me

by Caffeinated_blood



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle Scenes, Blankets, Comfort Food, Comfort Reading, Cooking, Emotional Hurt, Error is going to be fixing that (Ink) for me later, Eventual Fluff, Fights, Gen, Hurt, Magic, and Ink is the unfortunate recipient of that want, creators, duh - Freeform, eventual fluff is eventual fluff for a reason, i think that wraps it up?, lets see we gots, of the mediocre kind ofc bc thats all im capable of, of the questionable kind, strap in bitches we're going for a ride, this is purely me wanting some good whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeinated_blood/pseuds/Caffeinated_blood
Summary: i wrangled it into submission
Relationships: Sans & Sans (Undertale), Sans/Sans (Undertale), You choose - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. Got A Secret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmic_ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_ink/gifts).



> how does one title anything
> 
> asking for a friend

_~~Truth can be hidden, but not forever.~~ _ ~~~~

The Void was one of the few spaces the Creators had trouble with. It’s why the Anti-Void exists, as all things have their intended opposite. It’s also partly why the Anti-Void is where their favorites reside in. Easier access ~~to the poor souls~~ that way. Their reaches were amplified within the realm they chose as their own compared to the space they granted to the Void.

_~~Not unless you’re smart about it.~~ _

Ink has forever and all its eternities to run from his truth. All the worlds and its intricacies to keep him distracted from what he truly fears most.

_~~He is determined to make sure his is hidden for a long, long time.~~ _

But this is fine. Many things run, but all will eventually be caught. The Void is nothing if not patient after all. 

_There was warmth, and it filled him like nothing before it. It held him gently, cradled him in soft golden tones of light and he slept in peace._

And if the little Artist wished to prolong his little adventure through the Multiverse, then why not let him have his fun? 

_Then it burned out. Flames snuffed smaller and smaller until there was none but ash and coal where light guided him once. Cold permeated his bones, chasing away what little warmth he stole for himself into nothing._

Just because he is out of the Void’s immediate reach doesn’t mean he is safe from the Creators. 

_Always, always nothing._

Quite the contrary actually. 

_You are not meant to exist_ , whispers a voice. Softly, slowly, like a mother would calm their child. The voice loops on itself, creating an echo effect that would have mesmerized him, had they said something different. It is not a voice he recognizes. 

_You deviate from your story,_ another replies, like he didn't already know. One more joins the choir. He'd shortly find it would be one of the few things he'd truly love to loathe. But he is one of the soulless. And he is simply incapable of either loving or loathing. 

_You are made to be forgotten._

It is his voice, speaking the truth he desperately runs from. Wishes it be treated like any other of his memories and be left in the wake of his departure. Yet it catches up to him anyway, unbothered and uncaring of how much he wills its presence away.

The presence of the echoing is louder now, pressing into his skull, pressing onto his empty ribcage, pressing through him until he is ink and bone shards on a stark white canvas. Yet he remains conscious. Conscious of how his ink melts into the white, shards turning to dust, consumed time and time again. He knows he should be afraid. He knows he should be terrified.

He knows why he is not. This truth petrifies him. It is his truth, has always been his truth, and always will be his truth. No matter how much he works to break from the script.

They _are_ bound to their fates after all. Characters will always be characters, even after losing their story.

The last thing he sees in his puddle of ink and paint and white is himself, staring into and through his emptiness the way nobody ever would. His reflection gives Ink a jagged smile of fangs, and falls into the puddle with him, breaking them both into ink and shards for the void to consume once more.

…

…

…

\---

…

…

…

Mornings were not something Ink usually disliked, but there was something about this one that was absolutely rubbing him all kinds of wrong.

Maybe it was because he woke up in a sweat, limbs tangled and clothing stuck in joints they _really should not_ be in. Maybe it was the ghost of a migraine he could feel in his temple. Maybe it was simply because he forgot to take his dose of nightly paints, meant to help boost him up in the morning. Or maybe it was all of the above. 

Ink didn’t know. But he knew there was no going back to sleep now. Not that he wanted to, mind you. He could feel phantom sensations all over his body, and that usually meant he had an eventful night ~~and not in the pleasureful way either~~. Scratching over his tattooed sternum, delicate phalanges traced the grooves of swirling black where an itch was plaguing him.

Dreaming was something he wasn’t familiar with. Not in the way others were at least. Usually, it meant he revisited memories he’d rather forget. Dream to induce his namesake when Ink asked, and failed to reap anything other than a toss-up of inky vomit. 

(He even asked Nightmare, but ultimately met the same result. Ink still didn’t know how to feel about it.)

After multiple experiments with the sunnier twin, all they got out of it was the artist could be lulled to sleep but that was it. Ink simply couldn’t be brought to the dreamscape.

The itch in his sternum danced across his ribs with a vengeance and his scratching traced over old forgotten grooves. It seemed to be focusing on a singular spot by his lower ribs, pulsing steadily and drawing his attention.

Huh. 

A Creator’s call usually wasn’t this vivid.

Eh, might as well. Not like he was doing anything else, and patrol was hours away.

(He couldn’t be sure of that last thought, but if he was late-late he would’ve known by now.) 

(Dream and Blue always made sure of that, if nothing else.)

The pulsing point grew stronger with every minute and Ink forced himself to stop picking at it. He didn’t want to stain another of his sheets with inky marrow. Shit’s hard to get out, even with Blue’s help.

“Might as well,” he mutters, detangling himself from his (still delightfully warm, ugh) comforter prison. “Need clothes. Where are clothes?”

Looking around his room provided no answer as to where his work clothes were—seeing as the clothes that _were_ scattered about were oddly tattered more so than usual.

He picked up the rags that were formally his shirt. Why were these so…?

Ink’s washed out eye lights brightened the slightest bit as he remembers the events of the day before. Ink huffed, amused in a distant kind of way, faintly recalling a glitched screech of expletives and a puddle of mud he painted into place for a certain skeleton in Chocotale.

Long story short, Error was extremely pissed and chased him across AUs he’d already forgotten. 

They ended up somewhere in the Anti-Void that was neither of their spaces. The lack of strings didn’t stop the glitch from summoning more, with extra bones and blasters.

Fun fight though!

Exhausting, but fun! As it always was with Error.

Ink stretched until his joints popped, groaning at the remaining aches, and picked up more of the dirtied scraps of fabric he came across to drop into the bright blue basket by the door.

(As long as Ink remembered to pick up after himself, Blue would be merciful in his lecturing. The swap never told him why exactly he had to save the more salvageable fabrics he owned, but Ink guesses it was for those sewing lessons Blue had been taking recently. Scraps to practice on and mess up made more sense than using brand-new fabric after all.)

The artist's movements were stilted, not as fluid. But then again, he didn’t think he was fully awake yet. That was fine. That’s why he had the godsend that was coffee, and paints would fix the rest of him no sweat.

Great now he was craving. But he still needed clothes. But coffee was important too. And paints! And maybe a bath…

“Actually…”

There was nobody in his part of the Anti-Void but him, right? Therefore, there would be nobody to complain about immodesty, right? He knew Broomy wouldn’t care about Ink’s state of dress one bit, wherever his brush was. “Heh, Dream would absolutely smack me for this.” 

Ink melts on the spot and reforms into his kitchen, shivering at the cold open air. Why was it always so cold in the mornings? Grumbling, Ink makes a beeline for his coffee maker, mechanically going through the motions and waiting until the dripping started. He reaches into a cupboard above him and pulls out his stash of morning vials.

Ink stretched higher for a vial just out of reach, feeling the fabric bunch up. Fingertips brushing by the vial he needed just as his coffee finished, Ink put off tugging them back down in exchange for grabbing a random mug, uncaring of how his shorts had practically become useless in covering his pelvis.

They were really comfortable though. These shorts were a gift from Lust after all! And Lust always made the best sleepwear. Even if most of them were kinda short. And revealing. 

Besides, the Anti-Void was accessible to a very select few only. And it isn’t like there’s anyone out of them who’d bother to watch him in his home.

(That’s what he thought at least.)

~~(Meanwhile a certain glitch in the system—who was planning to enact revenge for the Mud Puddle Incident—closed the window he opened to the artist’s space so fast he fell onto the Anti-Void floor. He could barely hear the laughter of the Voices over his own rushing magic.)~~

~~(Curling up and shoving a flushed skull between his knees the error screeched.)~~

~~(Spoiler: was not effective and only made him out of breath. Fuck, why was his soul…?)~~

~~(It wasn’t his fault the stupid painter was practically naked! Those shorts had to be shorter than Lust’s! Stupid inky bastard fucking up his plans! Legs like those had to be fucking illegal!)~~

~~(Aaggghhhhh!)~~

Ink paused in raising his mug of steaming coffee, skull tilted to the side, and waited for a beat. Huh. He could’ve sworn he heard a portal. Maybe he was hearing things.

A sharp pulse on his ribs pulled him from the thought. What was…?

Oh. Creator calling. Right. He’s got coffee. He needed paints. And maybe a quick soak then clothes hunt before hopping to the AU. Okay. Good plan.

Ink sipped at his coffee, warmth spreading through him as the liquid converted into magic. Yep. Coffee was a godsend. Now for his paints.

Grabbing the vials he put aside Ink measured out his usual morning dose in a flask and dunked it into his remaining coffee. That way he could enjoy both and not have to worry about forgetting to take one color or the other!

~~(He _does not_ want a repeat of _that_ event _._ Once was enough, thanks.)~~

Ink took another swallow, chemicals and bitterness on his tongue. The AU wasn’t going anywhere he was sure, else he’d be feeling more than just pulsing in his ribs. 

Alright, it was decided. Soak for a little bit before running off to the AU.

He popped into existence in his bathroom and grabbed a towel. Ink could still feel the aches and pains he’d left to stew overnight. Not surprising, considering he’d passed out the moment he hit his mattress. At least he didn’t dirty his bed this time! Small victories!

He shed his shorts while the water rose, mixing in a couple drops of that neat scented oil Blue gave him. Fresh and sharp and biting, like wind from a storm. A hint of something faintly bittersweet too. Blue wouldn’t tell him where it came from. 

Ink found it comfortingly familiar though, so he didn’t mind the mystery too much. 

Taking another swallow of his mixed drink Ink stepped into the water and toed it off just as the bath filled to its rim, that mystery scent making him relax further.

He should ask Blue for another bottle. This one was nearly out.

Ink groaned, slouching into the hot water. Yeah, soaking was definitely a good idea. The tension in his body lessened the longer he sat, sipping from his coffee. A couple of the cuts he missed healing stung a bit but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t ignore. 

Heh, Error really didn’t appreciate that prank. Ink smirked, eye lights brightening. And after he went through the trouble of making the colors match too. Orange four-leaf clover and pink oval.

He should make a note on his scarf about avoiding Error for a little while—until the glitch calmed down enough not to blast him on sight at least. That meant no pranks or visits for three, maybe four days? Rough guess? He could still sneak into glitchy’s place to check if Error was still pissy after that tiny break.

Ink took the remainder of his coffee-paint mix like a shot, rainbow tongue licking his teeth and setting aside his mug so as to not drop it in the tub. Paints had his eye lights return to their normal vibrant hues. Caffeine was kicking the rest of him to wakefulness. Barring the tiny wounds Error’s strings so kindly left him, he was good as new!

Or, he would be. As soon as he got clothes on him. Ink could still feel that insistent pulsing. His face scrunched up in distaste. 

Annoying as it was, it did remind him that he actually had a job to do. Ah well.

The artist huffed, pulling himself up and out of the cooling water. The soak was nice while it lasted, he supposed. Ink wrapped himself up burrito style and waddled into his room, humming a tune he couldn’t name. The empty coffee mug remained forgotten on the bathroom counter.

“Clothes, clothes where art thou clothes?”

  
  
Ink makes his way to his dresser—ignoring how disheveled the drawers were, save for the bottom one. That one had his special sketchbooks. Bones clacking with shivers Ink grabs the first articles of clothing he sees—black tee and gray sweats—and picks up his soggy towel.

(He should get to cleaning his place, now that he thought about it. Blue would have a soul attack if he saw this mess, especially after Ink said he would try cleaning up here and there.)

Balling up the towel to shoot it into the basket only meant it ended up in a sad, wet lump some steps away. And Blue always told him to never let wet fabric sit lest he forgot about it. Meaning he had to go over there to put it in the basket. Which lead to him picking up the various bits and bobs that cluttered the floor. Which lead to him cleaning his room and tidying his bed.

...

So that happened! One less room to clean, if nothing else. The others could wait until Blue got sick of his clutter and go on yet another cleaning spree.

Oh, if Blue could see him now. He'd be so proud. And maybe a little suspicious but ultimately proud! Heck, Ink was a bit proud of himself too!

The Creator—who chilled out with the pulses while he got sucked into cleaning—decided he was needed at that very moment and turned up the pulsing into a feeling not unlike a hot spark. It made his ribs itch something fierce but it wasn't painful. ~~Not yet.~~ Mildly annoying was more appropriate for it.

Ink looked around his bedroom and upon seeing no trace of his things, melted away into the living room. Spying his bandolier hanging halfway off the couch the artist checked if it still had his paints. He always made sure his paints were topped off before going anywhere.

Leaving home without paints was a recipe for disaster guaranteed.

"Broomy! Come on out! We need to go!" He needed Broomy's help if he wanted to inkport to the Creator's AU. "Broomy!"

A soft, barely-there whisper had Ink spinning around, a black inky bone summoned and pointed. Red exclamation point and purple square.

"Broomy! There you are!"

His brush was leaning against the wall. There was silence.

"Stop laughing at me! I thought you were a hostile!" Ink huffed at his non-moving brush, unquestioning of where it came from even though it wasn't visible earlier when he came in.

Broomy did nothing.

"Well, at least you're here now." Donning his bandolier Ink paused in heading for his brush. "Huh? My outfit? Oh!"

"My usual needs a little _brushing up_ , so to speak," Ink sniggered. "We're only checking out an AU today so this one should be fine."

The artist twirled and lifted a leg Mettaton-style. "Remind me to have Blue over so we can make a new pair of those flowy pants."

Broomy appeared right as Ink opened his palm toward it, despite being a few feet away previously. Ink did not question this.

"Yeah I know I can just paint some but it's more fun if we make it by hand! Plus! Blue needs stitching practice right?" Broomy was quiet. This did not deter Ink. "This way I get pants and Blue gets practice done and we both have fun! A win-win situation!"

Broomy was placed onto Ink's back. "What about Dream?"

"Oh! That reminds me! We haven't had a drinking night in so long!" Ink moaned, sighing dramatically, before straightening with a sly smirk. "Dream's getting awfully friendly with Cross these days so maybe I should _steal_ him away, heh."

The question was, would Dream be willing to ditch work and Cross long enough so Ink and Blue could weasel the details of their definitely-not-a-cliche story out of him?

Time will tell, Ink supposed. He grinned to himself. He and Blue could always bring out the big guns if Dream tried to stall. 

A stronger pulse made itself known, leading Ink's fingers to scratch it in response.

Thoughts for later then. He'd check out the AU first, see what the Creator needed. Then maybe after that, he could drop by UnderSwap.

Maybe he could get some food in the AU when he popped by too.

Ink was seriously craving some more coffee. Maybe he could get chocolate pancakes too.

His magic sparked, the equivalent of a stomach rumbling.

Oh yeah, definitely getting himself pancakes.

"Let's go Broomy. Sooner we get there, sooner I get coffee."

The artist vanished into a puddle of ink, leaving his home to the ~~un~~ natural quiet of the Anti-Void.


	2. Can You Keep It

So remember how Ink said he'd only be checking out an AU?

Yeah, about that.

See, the thing with Creators being fickle, powerful entities was that they were fully aware of their importance and power. You could earn their favor one day and be fighting to keep your skull attached to you the next all because of a slight mishap.

But Ink could handle them, had to handle them. He's been handling them for all of his guardianship. He's fine!

And then there are the ones who get really high and mighty about their stuff. Even if their concept's been done hundreds of other times. But Ink's also used to that, he'd had to be, if he wanted to keep his skull on. But if by some totally unpredictable twist of fate—like taking away an extremely important key piece of the story—said stuff turned buggy (near-collapsing around him kind of buggy, kind of like Error's minor tantrums affecting the AU's codes) and they couldn't fix it, well.

That's where Ink came in.

This time though, the callings were especially odd.

What was supposed to be a quick in-and-out check-up trip turned into three ("Just one more wouldn't hurt!"), then seven ("Last one, then UnderSwap."), then twelve ("It must be important Broomy, they said so!"), until he’s lost count of how many sketch worlds and AUs he's jumped into.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. Ink (has long since gotten used to it) knows what his job entails, knows what the multiverse (demands, takes, steals) needs from him. He knows how this rodeo goes. This job’s been part of (most of) his entire life!

(More like it's literally his entire life. Ink the Guardian. Ink the Protector of the Multiverse. Never just Ink the skeleton. His job is everything he is now, he knows. It's fine, he doesn't mind. It's fine!)

(It's not like he can ever be just Ink anyway. Just Ink, no crazy scheming skeletons in his closet. He doesn't think he can be just Ink anymore. Not after all he's seen. Not after all he's done.)

...he doesn't like these thoughts anymore, he realizes, phalanges digging grooves into Broomy's metal band. Good thing he put that there, stars know his claws would've dug into and corroded the wood there long ago if he hadn't. Broomy's lower, uncovered-by-metal wooden body could attest to how sharp his claws were.

(No attempt at dulling them had helped, even as Ink kept trying trying trying trying to make them duller, less cutting, less dangerous, less damning to look at.)

(All he got for his troubles was inky marrow drip-dripping down his forearms and onto his wooden floor. He doesn’t remember how long he stayed there either, phalanges cracked and dusty and sluggishly bleeding ink. They were as sharp as before he started, maybe even sharper now, what with the cracked and uneven points on it. He dug them into his arm, not minding the flare of sharp pain twisting his senses. Or maybe that was the blood loss talking. Not that he lost that much anyway, or so he thinks.)

(Thank fuck he'd had no carpet back then. Blue was the one who gifted it to him later on, he thinks, claiming it to be a housewarming gift. Ink didn't really get it, but he got a nice carpet out of it, so he wasn't complaining. It was soft and furry and warm between his toes, just thinking of it had him wiggling them and forgetting he was in snow. Eugh, now he was extra cold.)

Why wasn't he wearing shoes anyway? The cold snow always gets between his toes when he goes out. Maybe he should invest in some slippers, like Error's. They could match! Error would loathe that so much.

...what was he thinking about?

Oh yeah, Creators and AUs.

When a Creator called, they would lead him to their AU. They'd let him know what the problem was, he’d see what he could do, let the Creator check it over and if they were happy with it, let them do the finishing touches.

It wasn't a taxing job really, often all he had to do was nudge and rework some things around other things and see what the Creator thought about it and continue doing so until things worked out.

Most times that meant he could sit back and watch the world come to life, see characters becoming more than just lines and shapes. Splotches of color would rain from the sky and start spreading through the landscapes they fell on.

Sometimes those colors would even land on him and he’d feel the rush of emotion the Creator was feeling. Excitement, a proud kind of weariness, fulfillment, and a spectrum of other emotions he could only dream of.

They’d wrap things up, Ink gets a couple of his vials filled, and he jumps to the next call with a job well done and a flourishing world behind him.

Surprising no one, not all Creators were very patient.

Some would nag and pull at him until his bones ached something sharp, others would be bugging him into rushing his work then critique every little thing about it. The protector would be forced to redo things until they were satisfied. It was his job to help them, and help them he would.

Even if his vials would begin to run low.

The thing was, his magic was tied to and amplified by both his paints and his ink. He needed his paints to do things in the world he was called to, and what he used up would be given back when they finished a world. He only had to collect them into the vials he carried.

Problem was, the bigger the world, the longer he had to stay. The longer the world took to finish, the more magic he’d use up. The more magic he lost, the less he’d be able to do anything to help the world and its story. The longer he was without his paints, with nothing to replenish them…

Well.

That ultimately translated into: _Extremely Bad Thing That Should Not Happen. **At All.**_

On the plus side, Creators like those were rare, usually not sticking around very long, so Ink didn't have to deal with them for very long either.

But Creators in general aren’t so difficult to please. Sure, there were perfectionists he came across and the ones with a sharp eye for things out of place, but they usually already had an idea they wanted to see come to fruition. He could say they were arguably the easier calls to answer.

All they needed from him were occasional nudges here and a couple of brush strokes there to help them through a creative rut.

Creative ruts were unique from each other too! It was weirdly interesting to see how each was different. Like magic signatures but weirder and more complicated!

Sometimes that meant being unable to step away for days because artistic blockades took a corporeal enough form to appear in the world.

Other times that meant watching the world crumble into dust, watch the Void consume all in its path until a blank canvas remained.

…

World erasures by a Creator’s hand always did hit him a little worse than other things, Error’s world-destroying included. At least those he had a chance of saving, of bringing back what was lost.

But for a world made only to be deleted? He could do nothing but watch. Sometimes not even that. Just pop in to see colors fading into another blank canvas.

He liked the quiet losses least of all. Sketches would disappear line by line, slowly fading away. It hit too close to home, Ink thought, something inside clenching painfully.

Needless to say, he avoided sticking around when things started going south.

He liked the loud and sudden ones better. Buildings would crumble and characters would scream and the world would eventually come to collapse on itself, crumpling into a ball Ink would solemnly collect and add to a jar.

He had to keep a memory of them one way or another.

Hopefully, this one wouldn’t end up like those worlds. It was already beginning to stabilize, character sketches testing out movement and details of the story cementing into place.

Good timing too, the Creator was getting particularly frustrated. Ink checked his sash and himself. Enough magic for maybe three—and only three this time, he had a promise to keep and a plate of pancakes to eat—more calls and a handful of AU jumps. Not too bad.

He’s already checked and helped with a lot of the budding worlds, what with the influx of Creators calling him out of nowhere, so that left checking in with Dream and Blue and the artist could be free to do as he pleased!

He couldn’t wait to drop by UnderSwap for those pancakes. He’s been craving for so long it wasn't even funny.

The pulsing in his ribs came back with a vengeance, making the artist curl into himself with a wince. Around him, things were spazzing all over the place. He could see the Gyftmas Tree in Snowdin alternate forms.

Barbwire, gyftmas lights, a stump, a pole, a hook (???), and back to gyftmas lights.

“Is something wrong?” Ink hedged when the world shuddered a final time, constructs fizzing in and out of place. The artist clenched his fist when some of the sketches were erased but knew he couldn’t interfere with a Creation process.

It’s fine. Creators liked to modify worlds all the time. This would turn out fine.

He hoped.

“Hey, pal? You doing alright up there?” Ink tilted his head, eye lights wary but curious. The Creator was taking an awfully long time to drop those paints he’d been needing.

“I’m not gonna be of much help soon. I gotta refill my paints. You know, my vials?”

Ink felt a shiver run up his spine, feeling something coil and sit around his neck.

It was heavy and made him reach up to pick at it.

There was nothing around his neck.

The world around him shook and Ink finally saw paints fall.

Black and red and white and blue rained down in fat droplets.

His eye lights flipped. White plus sign and purple oval.

The heaviness there remained.

The Creator's continued silence was really not reassuring him.

Neither were the rising blobs of grey and black and red he could see.

Ink took a silent second to mourn the pancakes he sure as heck wasn't getting to anytime soon, and splashed one of the amorphous blobs with acidic purple paint the next.

Just his luck. He seriously had to make this quick. His paints were getting much too low, much too quick for his liking.

But seeing as these were some big Blocks and even fighting the small ones often took a lot of strength, well.

He'd do his absolute best at least.

Inside his Inventory, his ringing phone remained ignored.

…

…

\---

…

…

“Where is he?!” Blue yelled, dodging spikes and knives and acidic sludge.

Today was _not_ shaping up to be a good day for the Star team of the multiverse.

“He isn’t picking up.” Dream muttered, disbelieving. He could feel Blue’s annoyed worry and he was feeling much the same.

Ink _never_ missed a work call.

Or he hasn’t until today, apparently. This was why they had specific tones for work and home! It’s one of the handfuls of things Dream trusted the other to come through for!

“DOWN!” Dream dropped, torso aching where he hit stones and shrapnel. Blue sailed ahead of him, hammer shifting into a gleaming scythe, cutting a wave of bone attacks in half and dispelling its magic. Guess he hadn’t been skimping on Razz’s training offer.

Dream reached for his bow and conjured more arrows, releasing one after the other where he could. He could see his brother’s teal eye light in the far shadows, grin as piercing as his arrow tips. Dream ignores the pained pulse deep in his core and shoots straight for his brother.

He misses, but the attempt makes him feel better, as much as he hates to even think it.

Ink has never been known for good timing but stars damn it all couldn’t he have chosen a better day to go off-grid?

Dream and Blue have been holding their own against Nightmare and his gang for what felt like hours!

Which, honestly, wouldn’t have been unreasonable. Stars know they’ve had ones with more devastating losses—

_~~Fire, screaming, the scent of ash and rust.~~ _

_~~An arm outstretched to someone he failed to protect.~~ _

_~~Blue hunched over him and Ink screeching in fury as bones broke through the corruption.~~ _

—and frankly, this battle was surprisingly one of the tamer ones.

Horror was chewing on a steak (???), hatchet flying and Dream had to reel back to avoid untimely decapitation. He parried with his staff—old yet sturdy and imbued with his magic—taking advantage of Horror’s momentum to whack the other’s cranium.

A loud crack was heard and Dream tried not to wince. He loathed having to fight with Horror, the skeleton’s delicate state always making him think twice about his blows.

Dream took the split-second opening to warp next to Blue, dropping the smallest shreds of healing magic on the fallen skeleton before he did so. This way he could ease at least part of the guilt in him.

Dammit why couldn’t he have been paired off with Killer in this one? He didn’t need to hold back so much with Killer. The grinning skeleton matched his every blow and Dream, admittedly, more than once got a battle high because of adrenaline alone.

It was refreshing in a way, to be able to fight with no holds barred, with new tactics and strategies to look out for, with new counters to introduce.

And no Blue, it wasn’t because Dream had a crush. Keep your facts straight.

A gleam from his side catches his eye and he moves to dodge another silver swing. Twisting around, Dream punches Cross in the face. No holds barred this time. Unlike Horror, Cross was someone he couldn't afford to go easy on.

The soldier was ruthlessly efficient, having been under Killer's tutelage in prior minor battles. Dream parries another slice for his neck and brings up his staff again, catching Cross under the ribs. He winces at the crack but pushes forward with another hit to the lower spine, followed by a blow to the vertebrae connecting to the skull.

Dream internally winces at the crack he hears but shoves down his sympathy to dodge the wave of red and white knives and bones headed his way. He parries the ones headed for his vitals and lets the (relatively) harmless ones pass him by, nicking his arms and lower ribs. A lucky knife shoots through his defense to catch him on the cheek while another catches itself in his clavicle.

He spares half a second to let loose some arrows so he can yank out the damned thing and is momentarily stunned when the moment he pulls it out Cross is slashing right up to his face with a smaller blade.

_“DREAM! BB INCOMING!”_

Azure bones shoot out one after the other where Dream freezes, Blue’s command ringing in his auditory canals. He sees Cross almost falter, moving too quick to stop and gaining more damage instead. This time he spares no sympathy for the way Cross immediately drops off away in a teleport.

He’d teleport away too if Blue’s BB attack came at him. He knew firsthand how scarily accurate Blue was getting at pinpointing and pushing his intent. The bones around him may feel like safety to him right now, but they could also flip and start shaving at his HP a chunk at a time.

Blue really was not skimping out on Razz’s training course. Maybe Dream should join in on one in the future.

_“Thanks for the assist Blue.”_

_“Quite Welcome! But Do Keep Your Head Out Of The Clouds.”_

_“Will do.”_

Dream focuses again, feeling Blue’s amusement a few feet away. He’s getting the hang of this telepathy thing, isn’t he? He should drop by Sci’s place and leave a gift basket later.

Calling his bow forward he fires one of his other arrows straight up into the sky, waiting until it reached the right height to manipulate his magic into changing forms and raining down smaller arrow shards on the battlefield. It wasn’t a move he’d normally do, but Ink and Blue had given their approval on using it in the battlefield.

It made for a good, few seconds of pause as everyone without his aura’s protection—aka literally just his brother’s gang—fended off the tiny things. While they were busy with those, Dream blips off next to Blue to assess and assist.

He was designated healer for this round, but luckily Blue only had nicks and scrapes. Or what accounted to nicks and scrapes for them at this point anyway. Stretch would most likely flip his lid and then some if he saw his brother this roughed up.

He startles back into action at an incoming wave of bone knives in his peripherals and yanks Blue out of the immediate area only seconds before the place turns into a pincushion. They both reappear from way above the ground, taking stock of who was where before they split once again—Blue hitting him with a surprise dose of healing and positive intent, effectively boosting Dream faster into a battle high.

He can't even bother to berate Blue for not giving him a heads up. The boost was quite appreciated either way.

If the way his brother was glaring at him was any indication, this was going to be a much longer fight than he initially thought.


End file.
